


Forniamo Vantaggio

by Birdhouse



Series: Wilderlands [1]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Western, Gen, On the Run, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdhouse/pseuds/Birdhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nathan Ford is a veteran of the Unkind War and the mildly-corrupt sheriff of the land rush town of McRory, while Sophie Devereaux is a brilliant actress heartlessly abandoned by her troupe (or so she'll tell anyone who'll listen). When Alec Hardison and Eliot Spencer ride into town and right into trouble with the banker's Changeling daughter, they bring with them secret pasts that threaten everyone's futures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ceares](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceares/gifts).



> Written for the Big Bang Job, based on an art prompt by ceares @ livejournal. I went kinda crazy with the world-building on this one; and it's not formally beta'd, though YeahLev and TheJokerLaughs (also of Livejournal) did some massive cheerleading and poking and just general help. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own.

#  I

_April 1890_

_McRory_ _, Oklahoma_ _Territory_

The weather-wards had worn out sometime halfway through January.

The town council ruled they didn’t have the money (or the means) to contact the weather-worker in Oklahoma City, thus shifting the unfortunate town from _mildly uncomfortable_ to _snow-bound prison_ for the rest of the season. Only now (with the warmer air blowing in from the west, carrying with it the hope of the far, far-off sea) was McRory - a small land-rush town built deep in Oklahoma Territory - starting to wake up.

  
The early spring breeze was warm as it blew over the slowly budding prairie, licking away the remnants of grey, slushy snow. The water running in the street turned it into a pit of rust-tinted mud, and the creeks that surrounded the town positively thrummed with the run-off, silver-blue in the sunlight. Songbirds flitted to and fro, back and forth from fence post and tree limb, flower stem and berry-bush alike, all the while chirping merry descants to one another.

The townsfolk of McRory almost imitated them; taking advantage of the mild weather to visit one another, standing in little flocks on the hewn-wood sidewalks or lounging in front of the barber shop, chatting back and forth excitedly about everything and nothing at the same time. Everyone already knew the news – the telegraph office had received word early that morning, the first communication in three months with the outside world; someone must have finally repaired the winter-damaged line – and it had spread like wildfire.

The mail was coming.

_*_

“Excuse me!”

Sophie _Devereaux_ dove through flocks of drab, clucking housewives and stolid farmers like a hawk, her musical voice drawing many an admiring stare.

_Duly deserved, of course._

“Excuse me, kindly allow me through!” Her words (and a truly justified elbow or two) parted the crowd around the stable yard, letting her sweep through as if the horses were her audience, the stable a stage, before anyone realized that they had as much right to be in their place as she did.

Most people, in Sophie’s experience, _never_ realized this, and she could live with that fact. She sat down primly on a toppled barrel, shaking the rumples from her peacock-shaded skirt before brushing a strand of hay from her hem, crossing her legs at the ankles and straightening her back until she almost felt she could be sitting in a tearoom in Boston or New York, rather than some horsey smelling stable in the untamed West.

Unfortunately, the scent of animals, winter-limp hay, mud and too many townsfolk made that, alas, an unattainable fantasy. She allowed herself a moment of self-pity as she watched the open stable doors and the twisting, narrow road that led to the outskirts of the new town. She had been promised fame and fortune in this place; the fortuneteller she’d spoken with before throwing her lot in with the travelling troupe of actors, singers and other assorted performers had assured her that the signs all converged, that this was the best decision she could possibly make.

She’d stopped considering the fact that he’d sorely misrepresented the situation months ago, right about the same time she began fantasizing about his wagon’s step-by-step invasion by termites.

“Mornin’, Miss Sophie,” came a low, lazy drawl from her left. Sophie barely managed to hide her start when the voice hit her ears. She hadn’t peered far enough back into the recesses of the stables, it seemed; for a figure soon stepped out of the shadows cast from the loft. She peered at the figure for a moment before the knot of tension between her shoulders eased a bit.

“Oh, hello, Sheriff,” she replied, beaming at him – half to further mask her unseemly moment of discomfit, half out of genuine happiness. Sheriff Nathan Ford simply raised a sardonic eyebrow at her, any emotion in his blue eyes hidden in the shadows of his hat and the dim light of the stables. She held his stare for a long moment before finally he looked away, clearing his throat.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, lightly, before he waved a hand out the open door at the road that wound its way out of town. “You still waitin’ on that letter?”

There was a moment of blazing, mingled humiliation and anger at the simple sentence. She let it flare for a second before forcing it to cool; forcing her words to come smooth and noncommittal. “I don’t know what you’re referring to, I’m afraid…”

“ _Tom Pettigrew’s Traveling Performers_?” Ford said, something of a small smirk playing on his lips. Sophie narrowed her eyes. “Left you behind when they hit the trail back in…. oh …September, was it?”

His words brought back the shocked dismay and the stronger sensation of betrayal, and Sophie turned her back on the lawman, fingers tapping against the rough-hewn boards of the barrel in a dangerously quick tattoo.

“It was a mistake,” she said acerbically. “The troupe was large, more than one wagon, I’m sure they just thought I was riding with someone else…” The certainty in her words didn’t reach her own thoughts, didn’t reassure her one bit. “I was simply…forgotten.”

Even if the story she kept telling herself was the truth, which –when she allowed herself to be honest– didn’t seem likely, the mere idea of being overlooked stung worse than a shot of whiskey with no chaser. Ford shifted beside her, the creaking leather of his duster, and his gun belt loud in the suddenly cold silence.

“I find it hard…” he slowly began, and she turned to look at him. His eyes were on the horizon, and he seemed to be picking his words carefully. “I find it hard to believe anyone could simply _forget_ you, Miss Sophie.”

For a moment, he looked as if he was about to say something more, but the cry suddenly went up from the children keeping watch on the outskirts of town.

“The stage! The stage is on its way!”

She was glad of the distraction, because for once she didn’t know what to say.

*

“C’mon. Let’s go greet our guests.”

The sheriff pushed away from the wall, offered her a hand up, which she took – though she tried very hard not to think about how warm his calloused fingers were when they wrapped around her palm, tried not to notice the smooth slide of his wedding band against her skin. She felt her cheeks flush before he released her hand again, already looking away.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” The words were barely audible over the babble of the crowd: children playing in the streets; their parents calling them back. “Is that…”

“What?”

“I think Miss Parker’s on top of the bank. Again.” Sophie looked towards the bank, catching a glimpse of a tiny, lithe figure walking the peak of the roof before Ford cursed beneath his breath. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Sophie…”

“Of course, Sheriff,” she replied, demurely, and he was gone, wading through the townsfolk; leaving her alone. She watched his narrow shoulders and slouching stride until he was out of sight, then turned her gaze toward the girl balanced on the bank’s front eaves. There was something playful and innocent about the way Parker leaned over to watch the people, open curiosity in her eyes, and Sophie couldn’t help but smile before returning her interest to the oncoming stagecoach.

The clatter of the horses’ hooves in the mud of the street was louder than she’d heard it before. It took a moment for the reason to become evident, and once it did, the crowd rippled like a wave, uncertainty echoing in the words surrounding her.

The team of horses leading the coach was well matched, wild-looking creatures with a high stepping gait, the breed something Sophie couldn’t name, though she knew well-trained beasts when she saw them.

The loud clatter, however, came from the single horse galloping beside the coach team: a massive creature with a deep chest, easily twenty hands high, solid black from nose to tail. It moved like a living thing, but the emerald light that gleamed from its eyes, the sparks that flew from its hooves and the ruby gleam of eldritch runes etched over neck and wither gave lie to the illusion of life. It panted steam into the air with every motion, and something ground and grated deep within its throat when it reared, tossed its head back and bugled to the sky, nearly unseating its cloaked rider.

Sophie glanced toward the bank roof to find Parker so entranced by the elegant Construct that the girl hadn’t even noticed the Sheriff making his stiff-legged way across the roof. The actress stifled a giggle, the only audience to the ongoing drama unfolding above their heads, and glanced back at the stagecoach.

It had pulled to a stop right outside the stable, the team standing obediently in the circle of the crowd – wary, but well behaved. The Constructed horse, however, seemed to be enjoying the attention, hopping stiff-legged over the packed earth and bucking like a wild bronco beneath its rider, who clung with a tenacity born (no doubt) of sheer desperation. The coach driver turned in his seat, took one look at the gamboling not-beast and his handsome face twisted into a scowl.

“Damn it, Hardison!”

Children stopped in their tracks to stare open-mouthed and wide-eyed. Their scandalized mothers put hands over their ears. The driver paused, eyes flickering over the assembled crowd before deciding that apologizing could wait until he rescued his friend. He leapt from the top of the coach, caught the massive beast’s reins in one outstretched hand, and practically swung from them as the construct didn’t budge an inch; didn’t even seem to realize it had a fully-grown man hanging from its head.

Hand over hand, he pulled himself up to the creature’s head before he transferred the reins to one fist, reached up the other and clapped it – hard – over one eerily glowing eye.

The construct went mad, whipping its head back and forth, but it planted its feet at the same time, clearly focusing on the pest half-blinding it, and not to its rider – who scrambled half out of the saddle with a paintbrush. One arm stretched out halfway up the thing’s neck, carefully covering one of the sigils with paint the color of midnight.

The result was immediate. The glow of life faded from the network of interlocked lines, the lattice of symbols and the emerald eyes. The grating whining groan disappeared, leaving the stable yard in complete silence. Sophie glanced to the bank again, but Ford and Parker were gone.

“Whoo!” The silence was shattered by a boyish, metal-tinged cry from the robe-swathed young man now perched on the construct’s saddle, both hands raised in victory. “I did it! They said it couldn’t be done, but I just _did it_ , ‘anythin’ larger than a dog’s uncontrollable,’ my a-”

“ _Hardison_.”

“Auntie’s slippers.” The young man – Hardison – amended, clearly changing the words from whatever uncouth remark he had undoubtedly been seconds from making. Sophie hid a smile as the coach’s driver shot his companion a dirty look.

“You call that _controlled_?” He snapped back, and in the calm following the heavily shod storm, Sophie recognized the way his hair was pulled into braids beneath his hat, the intricately carved knives hanging from his belt – about the same time as many in the crowd, it seemed, if the sudden renewed murmurs were anything to go by.

_Trailwalker._

But the ire in his eyes was nothing like the Wilderland clan’s typical inhuman calm, and perhaps that put the townsfolk at ease. “That _thing_ coulda taken your _head_ off!”

“Could have,” Hardison pointed out, hopping off the hibernating construct’s back in a flourish of robes and scarves. The brilliant purple symbol of the Alchemist’s Guild practically glowed from the back of his duster, and every other inch of his skin was hidden in the flowing silk, dusty wool and creaking leather of his craft. His voice was years younger than that of any alchemist Sophie had ever encountered, and there was something in his stance that seemed to radiate good humor. “But she didn’t. I’m tellin’ you, Lucille and her kind will re-vo-lutionize…”

“ _Lucille_? You gave it a _name-”_

_“Of course_ I gave _her_ a name, Eliot, that’s the best way to keep them from _stomping on your spine-”_

The bickering showed every sign of continuing for hours like this, but the two men at least worked as they talked, and soon they were surrounded by a small pile of mailbags, padlocked boxes and assorted other baggage. The Alchemist, Hardison, shut the back door to the coach, though, before Sophie could get a good look at the miniature laboratory that filled most of the cramped space.

She knew a little about the old arcane art. The last Alchemist she’d met had been an utterly charming old man with a white beard and absolutely no hair. He had been convinced that he could find the fabled Philosopher’s Stone. Sadly, his experiments had _not_ yielded the coveted Holy Grail of Alchemy. They had, instead, given him something foul-smelling that made his skin go cream colored and his hair grow back.

That was the main reason she had left the East when she did. It wasn’t the Stone, so he’d thrown the formula away. All she’d had to do was take the torn notebook pages to the other Alchemist across town.  All it had taken was a quick solution for the smell, and the following massive increase in _his_ funding that had led to a massive – if somewhat less legitimate - increase in _her_ monies. How was _she_ supposed to know the first Alchemist’s brother was a police commissioner who never heard the golden rule?

_Finders, keepers._

Needless to say, the alchemists were the main reason she was out here in the uncivilized reaches of the United States instead of back in Boston skimming off the success of others. The alchemists were the main reasons she was here, waiting for a letter of profuse, flowery apology from Pettigrew. One she was going to derive a great deal of pleasure from _burning_.

“All the same,” the Trailwalker - _Eliot,_ Sophie reminded herself - growled as Sophie drew her attention back to the stagecoach and its deliveries, “I don’t ever want that _thing_ near my team again.”

“That’s just bein’ judgmental!” Hardison snapped back, picking up three of the mailbags and slinging them over his back. “Judgmental an’ _mean_. You’re just scared that-”

“I hate to interrupt the banter, gentlemen,” Sophie said, smoothly, and the men turned as one, bright blue eyes and flame-orange goggle-lenses focused on her. She smiled, sweetly, and indicated the bags over the Alchemist’s shoulder. “But we were told to expect the mail…?”

The two coachmen exchanged looks. Eliot spoke first, scratching the side of his head with an expression that could only be described as politely baffled. It was almost remarkably endearing, and Sophie raised an eyebrow, trying to gauge if she was being played for a fool.

“I don’t know how you plan to do this, miss,” he said, apologetically, “But you see that stamp there?” Hardison spun the bag at Eliot’s words so the curled dragon-and-eagle logo of the United States Postal Service was visible. Sophie didn’t quite care for where this was going, but she couldn’t form a protest as Hardison disappeared towards the post office. “I can’t open those bags. I’m jus’ a middleman. You’ll get your mail come Monday, once it’s been…sorted and marked as delivered an’ all that. It’s all very…technical…”

“No,” Sophie pointed out, feeling her cheeks flush as this _stagecoach_ driver corrected her in front of a _crowd_ , “Back in October. The coach. We just…picked up our mail when it arrived…”

She needed that letter. Needed that apology. Needed a _we’ve made a terrible mistake, we’re coming back to get you, just stay there_. Otherwise, she’d spent the entire winter in this tiny town teaching English to unruly small children for no _reason_ and she did _not_ like wasting her own time.

“Yeah?” Eliot seemed sympathetic, but to Sophie’s eye there was something highly sarcastic in the Trailwalker’s mannerisms. “Well, when was the Post Office built?”

Sophie’s mouth drew in a thin line at that point, feeling disappointment transmute to pure annoyance at the realization that he was _right_ and he wasn’t even having the good grace to act _smug_ about it, he was still just acting _kind_ and she drew herself up to her full height – which, she noted with no small amount of smugness on _her_ part, made almost as tall as he was. She opened her mouth, fully prepared to let him have it, and-

“Eliot.” the Alchemist interrupted, appearing again at the trailwalker’s shoulder.

Eliot went still. The sudden calm that appeared– the one that most Trailwalkers were known for and feared for – sent Sophie back a step, her perfectly planned, cutting argument stripped away.

“Yeah, I see him,” Eliot murmured, almost too low to be heard. Just _what_ he saw,Sophie didn’t know. She was too busy trying to process what he’d just said. It had been _months_ since she’d had word from anyone, _ages_ since she’d seen any job prospects. She didn’t even know if her letters to Pettigrew had even reached their destination, but _this_ …

“I…have to wait until Monday?” The sentence sounded so small compared to her _planned_ rant, and she _hated_ that, but there was _something_ in the Trailwalker’s eyes.

“I just said that, ma’am.” Eliot said, politely; he kept watching over her shoulder. “I can’t let you have even as much as a picture postcard.”

It wasn’t his fault, truly it wasn’t. Mail was a federal thing, if he disobeyed the law, it would be worse than her alchemy recipe games; it would mean a penitentiary or a hangman’s noose.

But there was something thoroughly _unfair_ about this, and Sophie felt the unfairness gathering in her like a storm-cloud over dusty land, forming in the back of her throat: an arrow strung taut on a bowstring, simply seeking a target. She opened her mouth to aim, just as Eliot’s eyes focused on the space _right_ behind her.

“Sheriff,” he said, respectfully, though there was still something in his stance that tugged at her curiosity. She turned to see Ford right behind her, her heart skipping its usual beat at his proximity.

The sheriff met Eliot’s eyes mildly. “Trailwalker,” he replied, mirroring back a measure of that respect – and with reason. One did not simply disregard any member of the oldest Wilderlands clan. That was a good way to be found along the only road out of town, pinned to the ground. “I trust your trip was uneventful?”

“As it could be,” Eliot replied carefully, pushing the few strands of hair that had escaped his braid back from his face. The clan markings that slashed across his jaw and cheekbones were newer looking than Sophie would expect in a man of his age, but the easy grace with which he moved was familiar.

“Good,” Ford replied, carefully. He reached out, taking Sophie’s wrist in a careful, gentle grip. “Now, I need to borrow Miss Sophie, if you don’t mind.”

“’course not.” Eliot said with a shallow sketch of a bow and a flourish of one tattooed hand, as if doffing an imaginary hat. Sophie smiled -charmed, despite herself- and curtseyed before allowing Ford to lead her away.

*

McRory didn’t have much, but it did boast an impressive collection of creeks and streams, the natural protection of running water a boon against the various arcane creatures of the prairie.

Sheriff Ford paced across one of the foot-bridges that spanned the largest creek, eyes on the horizon when he paused in the middle for Sophie to catch up.

“Miss Sophie, I’m afraid I’ve asked you here under false pretenses.”

From anyone else, the words might have given her pause. Even trusting the sheriff as she did, she pretended to be watching that same horizon while her fingers twitched, almost reaching for the derringer hidden in her skirts.

“Oh?”

“Might you, perhaps, know how to tell when a document is legitimate?”

 

The question was so far from what she had been expecting that she turned to look. And was met with a remarkably accurate rendition of her face (though the eyes were too small, the jaw too pronounced) staring back at her, unattractively large text claiming “REWARD” above her head in big letters.

“….Oh.” She said, lightly. “Well. That one certainly looks…less than authentic.”

The look he gave her in reply was not amused. “It was on the stage,” he offered, dryly, and she was about to protest the fact that _he_ was allowed to get his mail when _she_ was not when he continued. “I’m almost frightened to ask for an explanation, as I am of the opinion that none will be forthcoming.”

“Don’t be so hasty, Sheriff,” Sophie replied, secretly pleased to note the small look of disappointment in the sheriff’s face. If Ford hadn’t ever thought of things between herself and him, surely he wouldn’t look so….crestfallen around the edges. “I can be a reasonable woman.”

His eyebrows climbed charmingly high, though the set of his smile was sarcastic. “Pray, then, be reasonable. Explain.”

“I gather,” she began, “from your accent, you are from the East. Boston?”

“We’re talking about you, Miss _Devereaux_. Not me.”

She almost winced. It was back to _Devereaux_ now, was it? No more _Miss Sophie_?

  
“A girl has to make a living, Sheriff.”

“Is _this_ why Pettigrew left you behind?”

“No, he did _that_ because I wouldn’t warm his be-”

The sheriff’s eyes flashed in some small victory. “Ah. It was _not_ an accident, then?”

Caught in the truth, Sophie glowered. The sheriff rolled up the crisp poster, held it between two fingers.

“If the poster tells the truth, you’re wanted for several confidence games back East…” Sophie just fumed. The sheriff pretended to slip, half-dropping the wanted poster before catching it again. “It’d be a shame for you to simply hole up in some town, lay low…never be heard from again…” He dropped the poster again, scooping it from the air at the last second. “Whoops, how clumsy of me.”

“What do you want, Sheriff?” Sophie demanded, crossing her arms to prevent herself from lunging for the accusatory poster. The sheriff sighed, tipping back his hat.

“Help.” He held the poster still then, clutched tight. “On two fronts. I’ve got half a dozen papers in the bank, land deeds. They’re…” He shifted from foot to foot, and Sophie arched an eyebrow, suddenly _very_ curious. Ford finally blurted, “They’re somewhat less than legitimate. I need you to watch the bank, make sure they….stay there.”

“Mister _Ford_!” Sophie gasped, and she didn’t have to try very hard to feign dismay. She knew there was something _odd_ with the sheriff, but forging legal papers wasn’t one of the things she would have ever suspected. “I never would have expected-”

“Don’t pretend you know me,” the sheriff snapped sharply, interrupting her. “Most people come out here for one reason, Miss So-Miss Devereaux.” She noted the slip with a tiny smirk, amused despite the confusion roiling in her brain. “They want a new start.”

For a moment, his dark blue eyes were wistful, and Sophie wondered, for that moment, _why,_ what new start the Sheriff would need. “When I swore to be sheriff of this place, I swore to protect that new start. I didn’t swear to protect people playin’ the same old games with the same old rules, but….” He shrugged, helplessly.

And then she knew what, exactly, he was talking about.

Mayor Ian Blackpoole and his toll scheme, financed by Victor Dubenich and enforced by Jed Rucker. The running water protected the town – but each of the streams was too deep to safely cross in a wagon or stagecoach. Blackpool had started out owning one of the east-most bridges. Four weeks after the first building had been constructed, Blackpoole started charging tolls. In the months that followed, he had slowly gained control over the other bridges.

She’d suspected he had outside help – she just never thought it would be _Ford_.

McRory was a border town – you had to go through it to cross into the Wilderlands, or the Clans would turn on you faster than a bored matinee crowd. Blackpoole had the town over a barrel, and they all knew it.

“Blackpoole?” She asked; just to confirm her gut instinct.

The sheriff nodded tightly, taking off his hat to scrub his hand through a riot of curls. “You know Jack Hurley?”

Sophie’s mouth twitched in a small smile. Jack Hurley was easily the sweetest man in the entire town. He owned the grocery store; always had penny candies and slate pencils for the children, usually overlooked the tabs of people stretched too thin by the long winter.

Ford gave a little chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah, I know.” His face went serious again. “He’s been talkin’ to anyone who’ll listen ‘bout the roads, the bridges and the tolls. I’m pretty sure that Trailwalker’s here on account of him. And Blackpoole…I can’t…” He grimaced. “I can’t talk him out of his damn fool ideas all the time.

_He doesn’t like the tolls, but he can’t fight them._ Sophie thought, watching the Sheriff. _And Hurley’s in danger…_

Sophie finally gave a small shrug. “You said you needed help on _two_ fronts?”

“Keep an eye on our new visitors.” The sheriff tapped the poster with nimble fingertips. “They don’t have this. They don’t know you.” He held the rolled poster over the side of the bridge, and let go. The current was strong with the spring runoff. The paper was out of sight in less than a minute, carried downstream by the rushing water. “Help me, Sophie. Please.”

There was something truly endearing in those blue eyes, Sophie decided; something rather like a puppy. She thought back over the last few months. Aside from a single dance at the Promenade back in September, her _actual_ contact with the sheriff had been minimal. Nothing the townsfolk would think of.

“You’ll destroy _any_ poster that comes through?”

The sheriff nodded, wordlessly. Sophie nodded, once.

“All right then, Mister Ford. You’ve got a deal.”


	2. Chapter 2

#  II

The sun was setting by the time Eliot Spencer and Alec Hardison reached Mrs. Hoffman’s boarding house, where Jack Hurley had recommended they stay. It was a neatly constructed house and the boards still shone new in the golden light, though the past winter had aged it, and it already needed a new coat of paint on the shutters.

McRory was too young to carry the scars of the Unkind War, the second Civil War now twelve years gone. Alec could remember the smoke smudged buildings of Detroit, the portions of Chicago that would never, ever stop burning, the gaping hole in the earth where South Ridge Indiana had once been. He _couldn’t_ remember the last town he’d been in that didn’t have memorial wards etched into the boundary lines of the town.

It was a relief, actually. The chains of sigils and signs that flared up when he walked through them – bringing to mind images of glorious battle and fallen soldiers - usually made him feel itchy.

And itchy was the last thing he wanted to feel right now. Not with the war being the main reason Hurley had summoned them here.

_For all you don’t want to think about it._

“I think I got the middle sequence wrong,” he said as his gloved hand flew over the tattered, much-abused pages of the notebook Nana Roberta gave him the day he earned his robe. Alchemy formulas and problems were much better than thinking about the sheriff and the letter they’d received from Hurley. “I used hamij instead of halmij; they both mean control, but there are _subtle_ differences, mainly when it comes to regaining free will-”

“Spare me,” Eliot growled, in that _very distinctive_ tone of voice he tended to use when he was planning on punching things, “and keep your babble to yourself. I don’t think there are many of us in this town.”

 “Aw man, you could tell too?” Alec said, almost whining as he closed his notebook with a _thump_ , tucking it back under his outermost layer of robes. “I thought it was just my goggles gettin’ dusty…” He pulled the orange-lensed goggles off, swiping at the glass with one robe’s sleeve.

Alchemy was almost an art form. Originating in Italy, it was based equally in science and the arcane, and practiced primarily by old white men with poorly feigned accents. A young black American man practicing it had raised a few eyebrows at first - Eliot had taken to snarling at people, but after the third town, Alec had suggested the cloak, the scarves, and the mask.

Traditionally, Alchemists wore the gear to prevent the volatile chemicals they worked with from burning them. Alec had taken it to an art form, layers of wool, satin and leather, a mask of silk like a bandit’s bandanna, topped off with the traditional orange goggles. It kept people from taking one look and immediately declaring him an imposter – and it let him move around in towns unnoticed. Once someone saw an alchemist, they rarely suspected the young man in the sharp suit was the same person.

"Put those back on, man,” Eliot growled again, reaching out to rap his knuckles on the door. “What’d I tell ya ‘bout showin’ your face in that get-up?”

The young Alchemist had known Eliot for ten years now. Both of their lives had been destroyed in the cataclysm that had ended the Unkind War- Alec Jenkins had been taken in by Roberta Hardison and raised by the crazy old Alchemist. Eliot Spencer had been rescued by the Trailwalkers and nursed back to health before he had set out to find the other survivors.

There had only been three. Alec Jenkins. Eliot Spencer. And Jack Hurley.

They kept in touch over the years. Eliot stayed with Nana every time he traveled east; and as Alec Jenkins grew more into the Alec Hardison he had become, the thirst for adventure soon carried _him_ on the paths _west_ when Eliot left.

Alec would never tell the Trailwalker, but the older man was the closest thing he had to a brother.

Sometimes, he could be about as annoying.

“Don’t.” Alec parroted back to him, something close to Eliot’s normal inflection in the single word. Eliot rolled his eyes, reaching out to pull the mask back over the bottom half of Alec’s face. “But I don’t see….”

“Shh!” Eliot hissed as the door opened. The Trailwalker flashed a sunny smile, and the tiny old lady at the door instantly forgot that _two_ men existed on her front porch. “Hello, ma’am, good day t’you…” He tipped his hat, his expression earnest: downtrodden but trustworthy. The grey haired matron was instantly charmed, clasping her wrinkled hands in front of her as if in prayer. Eliot layered the act on a bit thicker. Alec rolled his eyes.

“We – Alec an’ me, we’re new in these here parts, an’ we was wonderin’ if’n you might have a place for two weary travelers to rest their heads…”

“Well,” the old woman said in a small, sweet voice, “with the spring thaw, we’re expecting to be quite busy, but I do have a room…there’s only one bed, but I have a cot I can have the boys set up…”

“That sounds fantastic, ma’am,” Eliot agreed, hastily, as Alec already began to plan so that _he_ would be the one with the bed.

“Who is it, Elsie darling?” Alec recognized the musical voice the moment he heard it, and he bit back a groan as door opened wider to reveal the woman from the stables – the one angry about the mail. She had changed from her elegant blue dress into a more practical gingham shift, but she wore the green-and-white checks as if they were the finest Chinese silk. She clutched a bulging canvas bank pouch close, and her lovely face fell when she saw him. Not dramatically so, but enough that a man who made a living from paying attention to people’s movements would notice. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Is that a problem, miss?” Alec spoke calmly, the silken mask distorting his voice. “We were told there would be lodging here, and we’re prepared to pay.”

“No, I…” The woman seemed to realize that her Elsie was watching with an expression best described as confused. “No,” she said again, more firmly. “That won’t be a problem.” She took one of Elsie’s arms, pulled her back a step or two and dropped her voice. “Ask them,” she said so softly that Alec barely heard it through the layers of cloth, “to pay upfront. That way, I can deposit everything up front and we don’t have to worry about cash in the house over the weekend.”

Elsie relayed the request; Eliot politely pretended he hadn’t already heard it as he agreed, and soon they were quartered in a tidy but snug room on the third floor.

*

“I do believe, Mr. Spencer, we began on the wrong foot.”

Lodging at Elsie Hoffman’s included meals at six o’clock sharp for whichever boarders wanted food. They sat at the middle of the massive, crowded table, Alec had Eliot at one elbow, the woman from earlier – he’d learned her name was Sophie Devereaux, a name that tugged at his memory but not strongly enough to bother him – on the other. The two of them kept talking over his head.

And boy, could she _talk_. Eliot shrugged, his mouth full of the mashed potatoes (they were good, but not as good as Eliot’s; they could have used a pat or two more butter) and she took it as agreement.

“I apologize, however, we’ve all been under undue amounts of stress here of late…”

Alec looked over at her, curious. “Stress?” The little town seemed to be fairing alright - had to be, really, for Hurley to set up shop. Sophie gave a little shrug, almost mimicking his earlier motion, but didn’t seem inclined to answer his question.

“We were held up at the bridge by a man collectin’ tolls,” Eliot said, voice rumbling low in his chest. “Charged us ten dollars. Does that have anything to do with your stress?”

“Ugh.” Sophie pulled a face. “You got off cheap. Normally they charge twenty.”

Alec _stared_. Twenty dollars was a _lot_ of money. Eliot just took it in stride. He also didn’t say anything else, so Alec piped up.

“What’s the story with those, anyways? Shouldn’t the town be making a cut?”

“Ah. Maybe.” Sophie took a sip of her tea, made a small face, and quickly schooled it away again. “If the town had voted for them, it would have been lovely. Revenue, reputation…”

“The town didn’t vote for them?” That seemed odd, really, but it was known to happen; especially in towns this close to the Wilderlands. Not everyone wanted to admit that the towns that lined the border were important, and if the lawmen assigned to this region didn’t really care…

_Or worse, are on someone’s payroll already…_

Sophie shook her head delicately, clicking her tongue. “No. That there is the work of our _mayor._ A gentleman named Ian Blackpoole. You know, big businessman from back East. He made a motion to the town council about making the town’s roads all have tolls. We _are_ one of the main border towns, after all.…”

There was something like injured pride in that statement; the seeds of a story not yet fully grown. Alec made a note of it and let her continue unhindered.

“But that’s neither here nor there. The town voted that it would rather leave the roads open. They thought that would encourage better relationships with the tradesmen and craftsmen we would wish to have in our town…”

“So…what happened?”

“Blackpoole’s doing it privately now. He scared off the original claims, and he holds the deeds. Owns the bridges. And…well. The creeks…”

Eliot had pointed out the creeks when they entered town. Running water was one of the sure protections against the darker side of the arcane and the magical. The whole town was surrounded by it in one way or another. He’d been half-expecting Lucille to collapse into a pile of leather, wire and horsehair the moment they passed over the bridge.

“I’m going to guess there’s no way to get into town without going over a bridge?” Eliot asked.

Sophie nodded.

“And… he owns all the land with the bridges.”

Another nod. Then she paused, and amended, “There’s actually a few of them, but the money all goes to the same account.”

“And…no one saw that happening? No one thought to stop it? Can’t y’all, like…make him step down?”

Sophie leaned forward, her narrow elbows planted on the table in a rather unbecoming fashion, but it somehow made her look more earnest.

“Gentlemen, look around. Do you see fighting men? Young men?”

Alec had to shake his head. _He_ hadn’t. He’d just seen men with families. Children. Pensioners and old ladies.

“That’s because McRory’s a border town. You ought to know what that means, Trailwalker.”

Alec knew, at least.

Anything west of McRory was still considered the Wilderlands. The Trailwalker, Dragontouched and Goldleaf clans policed the borders, allowed settlers through it to colonies along the far coast, but only in set numbers, and only in set towns. Anyone else was considered trespassing into the territories of the Courts, the Kindly Ones, or any of the other varied factions of the arcane denizens of the world.

Any young, unattached man who came this far west usually kept _going_.

Sophie went on when they both nodded. “To go west to California, you have to come through McRory. To go east and get to Oklahoma City, you have to go through McRory. You’d have to go another fifty miles north or south to find another border town.”

Eliot growled, under his breath, and Alec glanced over at him until the trailwalker shook his head reassuringly.

“I still think it was stupid.”

“I won’t,” and she sounded slightly amused now, somehow, “argue with you there.”

Alec turned his attention to the food for a moment or two. It was much better than the trail rations they’d been eating the last few days, even if it wasn’t quite on par with _Eliot given command of a kitchen_ good. It would be a few days before they could actually contact Hurley. The letter that summoned them in the first place had mentioned an out-of-town trip ending in mid-April. Something about the Wilderlands and a trading experiment.

_But he’ll be back soon and then we’ll know what’s going on._

He didn’t know what made him look up just then, but he was glad he did. Storming their way – because there was no other way to describe how she was moving, all angles and elbows -  was a pretty young woman with long, wavy blonde hair and an almost elfin face, narrow and pale and lovely, but also feral. Her clothes were simple red-and-white calico, almost something a child would wear, and their simplicity only intensified her beauty. She walked quickly, steps certain, and she was focused on something with an almost terrifying intensity.

Beside him, Sophie hissed something unintelligible under her breath.

“Sophie!”

The girl stopped behind the older woman’s seat. She even spoke sharply, almost like a crow’s caw. “I have a question for you. More than one. Questions. I need-” Sophie raised an eyebrow, and the girl seemed to focus on the others sitting at the table, almost as an afterthought. She drew up short, head cocked as she stared at Alec. “…who are you?”

It was like staring into the heart of the sun. Her eyes were brilliant, her hair like a corona, something like madness caught between them. Alec swallowed, tried to get his mouth to cooperate with his head, and was dimly aware of Eliot smirking at him.

“Parker,” Sophie’s voice was careful, fond and mild, “The Trailwalker is Mr. Spencer, the Alchemist is Mr. Alec. _I_ am in the middle of my pudding. Can it, perchance, wait a minute?”

Parker seemed hesitant; Alec still couldn’t move his eyes from her face. She nodded, then, abruptly.

“Alright.” Her bright blue eyes fixed on Eliot instead of Alec, and he felt a pang of loss. He reached for his coffee, pushing his mask out of his way so he could take a sip; watching as she frowned. “Your markings are wrong.”

Alec almost inhaled his coffee, splashing the hot liquid on the red-and-grey silk. Sophie almost did the same, though far more gracefully. Parker didn’t even seem to notice as she went on. “You’ve only got ten slashes...” She reached out and poked his jaw, and Alec immediately tried to squash the jealousy down _flat._ Eliot flinched away from the touch as if burned, and Alec’s eyes narrowed.

_Changeling?_

“Shouldn’t there be more?”

Eliot just shook his head, ruefully.

“Probably.” His eyes flickered a bit when Alec looked back at him. Eliot just smiled at him as he shrugged. “I wasn’t initiated until I was twenty-one.”

“Oh.” Parker thought about that for a second. “Why’d they wait so long? Doesn’t that usually happen when you’re fifteen? Or something?”

“I joined the Clan under…unusual circumstances.”

“Oh.” She looked at him, doubtfully. “I’ve never actually _met_ a Trailwalker before.”

Hardison knew the expression on his friend’s face – a grin that showed just a few too many teeth.

“Wanna see?”

“Yes!” Parker practically jumped up and down as Sophie watched with raised eyebrows, glancing from Eliot to Alec and back again, as if she didn’t quite understand what was going on. Eliot stood, stretching, and Alec tried to glare daggers in the side of his head from his seat.

Right until the girl grabbed his leather-covered hand and tugged him to his feet. “Come on,” she said; her smile loosing a flock of butterflies in his stomach, “it’ll be fun.”

Fun or not, he sat on the edge of the back porch, his hand wrapped in both of hers –almost too tightly- and watched as Eliot paced to the middle of the tiny yard. The trailwalker drew in a breath, closed his eyes. There was a small flash of light, and when it faded, Eliot was gone. Standing in his place was a sleek brown otter, blinking curiously up at the porch.

Parker’s mouth dropped open. Alec’s eyes narrowed again.

_No fair starting with the cute ones._

“Aw, sure,” he said aloud, “go with the tiny things, that’ll impress her!”

The otter looked at him, an expression that was _clearly_ disgust on its face, but the light flashed again – and the townfolk had fun talking about the massive elk that chased the Alchemist down Main Street for _years_.

*

“Admit it,” Eliot teased later, after Parker had been led off by Sophie and they managed to escape the gaggle of children wanting wolf-back rides. “You’re downright _smitten_.”

Alec peeled off his scarf and goggles, dropping both to the bed so he could glare at Eliot.

“Yeah? You figure that out an’ then _you_ go and show off for her.”

“I kept her interest. She was holding _your_ hand the whole time, wasn’t she?”

 _…he has a point._ Parker _had_ held his hand the whole time – and chatted, too. Enough to find that she was, in fact, a changeling; left in charge of the local banker some fifteen, sixteen years ago. It had been nice talking to her, listening to her, _but_ …

“But…that’s not why we’re here, El. I can’t…we’re supposed to be finding Bridge.”

Eliot’s amiable mood vanished in the blink of an eye, and Hardison felt a pang of regret as he watched it go.

“I know.”

  



	3. Chapter 3

#  III

The Unkind War – so called thanks to humanity’s need to _name_ everything and their inaccurate labeling of anyone outside their kin as _Kindly Ones_ after the ancient Furies - started in 1875, following the events of the Year of the Unset Sun. 

Mistrust had always existed between the humans and their counterparts; between those who used technology to gain power fair and square (like the Alchemists) and those who had innate power simply resting within them (like the Warlocks or the Clans of the Wilderlands). Mistrust had led to fear, which had, in turn, led to outright warfare at the destruction of the Sunsetter and the upheaval that followed.

The war had been strange; airships and dragonflights volleyed for position as neighbors were forced – between the US Government and the Councils of the Kind – to turn on neighbors.

It had ended three years later in South Ridge, Indiana in a hurricane of bloody lightning and fire. The infamous warlock N’Thael Bridge had called down a cataclysm that stripped the entire town of life, left a gaping hole where, formerly, three hundred men women and children loved, laughed and simply _lived_.

And some days, Eliot Spencer wondered why he had ever fought, nearly died; why he had _survived_.

But other days - like now, watching a Changeling and an Alchemist working together – he didn’t bother to wonder.

He just lived for them instead.

*

Eliot sat at the table, carefully going over the ledger.

Hurley was supposed to return today – which meant they could _talk_ to him about why they were here in the first place – which meant that, maybe, they could be back on the road to Oklahoma City within the next three days. Everything they’d brought to town had been accounted for with the exception of the things they’d brought for Hurley himself, and all the numbers added up.

Parker and Hardison sat a little further down the table, making far more noise than was entirely necessary, Hardison working on some project, and simply letting the Changeling talk. Parker was explaining banks right now, and Hardison - despite the fact that Eliot was fairly certain the Alchemist found it about as interesting as paint drying - kept asking her questions.

“So, what does the teller do?” Hardison asked as he peered into the innards of the tiny glass frog on the dining room table. The intricate gears filled the entire space inside the translucent green creature, already glittering with the tell-tale golden sparks of alchemy gone right. Parker watched in fascination, her blue eyes fixed on the tools the alchemist used to knit the construct’s wire bones together. “Parker?”

“Hmm?” She looked up at him, and he shrugged. “Oh! Um. The teller just collects the money.”

“You like money?” Hardison asked, and Eliot rolled his eyes behind the cover of the ledger. The young man was about as smooth as a cactus sometimes. He’d already missed at least half a dozen opportunities to take this conversation to another level, but he was taking things _so_ slowly…

The alchemist was a likeable fellow, even Eliot had to admit that (hell, wouldn’t have brought him along if he wasn’t), but in the ten years since he’d found Alec, the young man had failed to show interest in anything _but_ his Alchemy.

…the way Parker’s eyes lit up when he asked that question, though, gave Eliot pause.

_Maybe he’s not doing so badly after all._

He was drawn from his uncomfortable realization by one of the boys he’d asked to watch the general store appearing in the doorway, panting. The child gave him a thumbs up, and Eliot gave the kid a dime before beckoning to Alec.

“Hurley’s back.”

*

“Eliot! Alec!” Jack Hurley’s hugs were – as usual – almost enthusiastic enough to crack ribs. Eliot barely managed to extricate himself from the circle of Hurley’s arms before the shop keeper caught hold of Alec. “It’s so good to see you again! I wasn’t sure if you got my message, the telegraph lines were _just_ repaired when I sent it, and…well, come in, come _in_!”

Eliot looked around the store as Hurley ushered them in. It looked like every other general store he’d ever been in, crammed from floor to ceiling with foodstuffs and cloth, bits and bridals, shovels and hoes, seeds and shoes and candy. Alec reached out a hand to snag a horehound stick, and Eliot slapped it down with a _look_. Somehow, Alec’s goggles managed to convey an expression of injured innocence.

“So, how have you been?” Hurley asked as he led them into the back of the store, into his cramped (but neatly kept) living quarters. “Is Nana doing alright? Hasn’t caught any dragons yet?”

Alec laughed when he appeared in the doorway, sans goggles and mask; Eliot rolled his eyes. The Alchemist had managed to get his candy _anyway_. “No, no dragons, but the old lady’s doin’ good.” He paused with the candy halfway to his mouth, his voice deadpan. “Don’t tell her I called her an old lady.”

“She’ll never hear it from me.” Hurley laughed, flopping down on his cot and waving at the chairs set up near the table. “Sit, sit! I don’t get to talk to real _friends_ all that often.”

Hours passed easily in the back room, catching up on each other’s lives. Hurley had found a young woman back east through a magazine ad, they exchanged letters nearly monthly (or had, until winter struck and the mail shut down). Alec bragged about Eliot’s ninth-lodge status, Eliot retaliated by dropping a comment about Alec’s plot to get Lucille into the Kentucky Derby, leading to a long rambling discourse about the viability of Constructed animals in other occupations.

In some ways, it was as if they hadn’t ever parted.

The shadows through the windows were long, and Hurley got up to light the lamp when Eliot finally broached the subject.

“Your letter said you thought you found Bridge.”

Hurley paused, the lamp chimney still in his big hand. It quivered, just a little, and he couldn’t seem to pull his eyes from it. “I….yes. Yes, it did say that, didn’t it?”

The hesitation in his voice was easy to recognize, and he was paying such close attention to the chimney that the match burned down to his thumbnail. He yelped and dropped it on the tablecloth. Alec clapped his hand down on it before it could catch the cloth on fire, and they both just stared at Hurley.

“What is it, man?” Alec said, leaning forward a bit. “You didn’t make a mistake _again_ , did you?”

The last time he’d thought he’d found the warlock, it had turned out to be an extreme case of mistaken identity. The whole situation had blown way out of control, and it was only through a lot of luck (and Alec’s connection to _the_ Roberta Hardison) that they hadn’t been shipped off to some prison back East to break rocks for a couple dozen years.

“No, guys, it’s…it’s not that.” Hurley set the lamp chimney back down with a clatter, adjusting the wick. The light danced around the room, and Eliot could clearly see the confusion in Hurley’s eyes. It matched the scent rising from him, the way Eliot could hear the tattoo of his heartbeat, the hesitation in his breathing.

_He’s nervous._

“I sent the letter because I promised I’d send the letter, but I really think…I think you ought to think long and hard on this.”

Eliot snorted. Alec just sighed.

“This again?”

“ _Yes,_ this again.” Hurley said back, indignantly. “I just…there’s no going _back_ from this. I mean, yes, soldiers kill people, you’ve both…we’ve all…” He couldn’t think of a graceful way to end the comment, and so barreled on. “This is different. This is cold blooded murder.”

He could see, to an extent, where Hurley was coming from. But. _But._

Eliot leaned against the table, voice calm. “We _have_ thought long and hard on this. It’s not murder; it’s an execution of justice. Bridge deserves to be punished.”

“….seven years in jail’s not enough?”

Both Eliot and Alec stared in incredulous disbelief. Alec broke first. “Seven yea- Jack, he _killed_ three _hundred_ people!”

Hurley flopped back down on his bed, waving heavenward. “They built the town on a leyline! Hell, one wrong symbol and _Alec_ could have done the same thing!”

“Do _not_ compare me to him!” Alec snapped, and Eliot could see the alchemist’s hands twitching on the table. Alec had been orphaned that day, after all; just like Eliot’s entire regiment had been killed. Hurley just met Alec’s accusing stare with a calm look of his own.

“He lost everything too, you know. He had a wife, a son. She left before the treaties were even signed.”

“There were seventy-nine children in South Ridge that day. One survived. _Me_. Who do you think is Bridge, Hurley?”

Hurley crossed his arms, frowning. “One child was given a second chance. Why shouldn’t Bridge be given one too?”

“ _Who_?” Eliot asked again, and Hurley just sighed, rubbing his eyes.

“…the sheriff.”

*

“Alec’s not a bad young man.”

Sophie stood in the Sheriff’s office, looking around the room with no small amount of interest. It was a bare room, devoid of any trace of the man who worked there – no images, no plaques, no awards, and no reward posters. No mirror.

She’d been watching the newcomers for _three weeks_ now. So far, the most interesting thing they had done had been getting jobs around town.

Well, that, and falling in love with the banker’s changeling daughter.

“You’re assuming he’s young,” Nate –Sophie had stopped thinking of him as Mister Ford about two seconds after he made his request - pointed out, rubbing at his thigh. He kept doing that. While the motion _did_ give her an excuse to look at his legs, there seemed to be something more to it. “He could be a _old_ man. You can’t really tell with all those robes…”

“No _old_ man would risk his skull with a construct horse, Nate.” Sophie shot back, barely restraining herself from rolling her eyes.

“True.” Nate conceded, sitting down at his desk. “But, even if he’s a nice _young_ man, Dubenich doesn’t like him.” His hand found his thigh again, right above his knee, and Sophie frowned.

“Well, I can tell you _Parker_ does. You can barely get a word out of her about anything _but_ him these days.” Sophie thought, then amended, “Well, unless you mention money. Or locks. Or safes. Or gold.”

She had always liked Parker; thought the girl simply needed a little guiding to take awkward wing. Now that she’d come to _know_ Parker, though, the more she was realizing that the changeling did _not_ operate in the same reality as the rest of them.

Nate heaved a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, Dubenich’s not happy with it. At all. He wants them both –Alec and Eliot,” he clarified, rather unnecessarily, “-run out of town.” He had that look in his eyes again – the one he had any time he talked about the businessmen who manipulated the town back and forth. He shifted in his chair and gave a hiss, as if he’d pulled something, hands clamping down over his knee.

“What…?” Sophie asked, one eyebrow raised, not entirely sure she wanted to know the answer.

“War wound,” he said, shortly, “Go on. You were singing Hardison’s praises?”

 _He’s lying_ , she thought, briefly, but she continued anyways.

“I just think…well. You’ve not had to chase Parker off the bank roof in weeks, have you?”

Nate had to admit, she had a point.

“I…just think you should ignore Dubenich. _Just_ this once.”

“Just this once?” Nate asked, eyes twinkling. Sophie eyed him in return before she let herself smirk, a bit.

“Well. Just this once…for _now_.”

*

So Nate told Dubenich no.

And two days later, the General Store burned.

The bucket chain of people that attempted to put it out had about as much effect as a kitten batting at a speeding train. By morning, it was nothing more than a hollowed out husk, filled with ruined merchandise – and the twisted, blackened body of what everyone suspected was the store’s proprietor.

The loss of the store was going to hurt the town for some time to come, but the loss of its big-hearted owner was going to hurt more. Already rumors were flying about arguments, gunshots and threats. The wood that remained was scorched with the tell-tale purple smudges of alchemic fire, and the whole building was surrounded by wolf-prints, each almost the size of Nate’s outstretched hand.

He sighed, and shook his head, tipping his hat back on his curls.

_I know a set-up when I see one._

“Damn shame,” a rough voice said, practically at his shoulder. “Who’d want to do a thing like that to a nice guy like Jack?” Nate jumped at the voice, turning to look at Jed Rucker. The big rancher was one of Dubenich and Blackpoole’s best men - he was also, unfortunately, a bona fide deputy. “I was jus’ tellin’ the fellas…”

The way he stopped, eyes narrowing at the ground, was one of the best acting jobs Nate had seen in years – and that was saying a lot, considering. But when Rucker looked up again, his mouth set in a grim line as he called out.

“Has anyone seen them new boys lately?”

  



	4. Chapter 4

#  IV

The bank’s attic trapdoor creaked as Parker slipped it open, a soft sound in the evening air. Sophie held her breath, but no one came to investigate as Parker dropped down into the second-floor hallway. Sophie peered over the edge at the ten-foot drop, and shook her head.

“Parker, I can’t-”

  
There was a soft scrape of wood-on-wood, and a ladder appeared beneath her, Parker on the other end, one eyebrow raised in challenge. Sophie sniffed, gathered her skirts, and clambered down the ladder.

_I can’t believe I’m doing this._

Parker’s steps were catlike on the wooden floor, padding through the early moonlight paths left on the wood. Sophie followed, equally silent, but only with all of the effort the other woman seemed to have left behind.

“Stay.” The word was barely a whisper, thin in the stillness, and Sophie froze, watching Parker inch forward.

_The general store was gone. The ashes were just beginning to cool. Sophie stood in the attic of the bank, watching Nate arguing with Blackpoole on the streets below. He was gesturing fiercely, clearly furious about something, but the mayor was unmoved. There was pain in the set of the sheriff's shoulders, and he limped badly when he stomped off._

_“Did you know his Nana was –is- Roberta Hardison?”_

_Parker had showed up in the dining room at Elsie’s on the heels of the firefighters and their rumor-mongering, practically dragging Sophie out of the house. Whether it was just Parker’s method of dealing or something else, Sophie still didn’t know, and the girl still hadn’t breathed one word of explanation._

_“You know who that is, right? She’s the one who sank the Unset Sun. The one who took N’thael Bridge in after South Ridge…” Parker’s voice held far more emotion than Sophie was used to as Sophie stood at the window and listened to the changeling fume._ _“‘Nana Hardison didn’t raise no fools, Parker.’ That’s what he kept saying to me.”_

_“That’s nice, Parker, and I’m very sad for you.” And really, she had been – Parker, after all, didn’t have that very many friends to lose. But she had other things on her mind. Things like Nate, out on the search party and surrounded by the Mayor’s men, searching for murderers._

_Could she have truly misjudged the young men so?_

Parker paused at the first doorway, brushing her fingers over the door jam in a very specific pattern. Sophie hung back as flame seemed to flare on the hall floor, glow brilliantly blue, and then fade. Parker looked back at her with a tiny, wild grin.

“See why I told you to stay there?”

Sophie nodded, wordlessly.

“Come on.”

*

Sophie didn’t understand it.

Parker could tell. That was alright – few people ever did. Sophie wouldn’t understand the way the floor tingled around magic, the way the air felt thicker near enchantment – just like she couldn’t understand the way Parker had felt just sitting and _talking_ with the constantly-masked Alchemist or just watching the Trailwalker sliding from wolf to horse to eagle and back again.

 _“Don’t be sad for me,” she snapped, tossing her hair back over her shoulder,_ _“Be sad for him. He’s not going to get to see his Nana again, and it’s all…” All because of Victor. She crossed her arms over her belly, scowling at the thought. It should feel more like a betrayal, shouldn’t it? Victor had raised her, nearly, after all; after her true family had left her behind in their flight back to the Wilderlands many years ago. _

_Often, Victor was kind, but it was a strange sort of kind, one that seemed to expect unspoken reward. She usually ghosted out the door to stay in the bank amid the metals and monies rather than try to figure the banker out. There was nothing untoward about him, just an awkwardness that she couldn’t figure out._

_But this…_

_She shook her head abruptly, trying to clear her thoughts of Victor’s snarled orders last night; trying to shake off the images of little green crystal frogs, animated hands and truly happy laughs that weren’t aimed at her but were laughed with her. Tried not to think about those hands still forever._

_She couldn’t quite push them from her mind in her sanctuary above the bank, and so she talked instead._

_“You know, Nana Hardison invented airships?”_

_Sophie gave her an incredulous look, so she fixed the story like Alec had._

_“Well. Made them safer, anyways.”_

_The Year of the Unset Sun had noble beginnings – an attempt to meld Alchemic technology with the less structured Warlock magics of the Wilderlands, hoping to bring a level of trust between the Old World traditions and the New World’s magic._

_The Sunsetter had been a massive airship refueling point halfway over the Atlantic Ocean; accessible only by airship, portal and dragon flight. No one knew what had happened, exactly, but it had been transformed from a mass of stone and steel into a ball of molten magic and flame. Its light and smoke had been visible from as far east as London, as far west as Chicago, a constantly burning Alchemical reaction._

_It took the alchemists a year to get create an airship that could get close enough to extinguish the conflagration. In the end, the solution had been deceptively simple._

_“She’s the one who thought to make them out of wood.”_

Parker paused at the top of the stairs, slowly placing her hands on one wall as she climbed onto the banister. She could see the glow of the runes on every other stair, designed to snare anyone who walked on them, keep them as still as if they were cement.

The changeling balanced easily, looking over her shoulder at Sophie, who watched her acrobatics in apparent dismay. Parker grinned. The unfamiliar expression was becoming easier and easier these days.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get it at the bottom.”

*

There was no visible change on the stairs, but when Parker hissed up the stairs, Sophie started down, carefully, without touching _anything_. The stairs creaked, but nothing else stirred, not even a breeze.

_“Wood?” She asked, distracted from her fretting by that seemingly contradictory statement. Airships had always been metal; powered by great alchemical fires and propellers, held aloft by balloons, as study as their water-born compatriots._

_“Yeah.” Parker looked at her like she was crazy, which was almost insulting, considering the source. “Didn’t you ever talk to an alchemist? Alchemical fire can’t…”_

_“…burn wood.” Sophie finished, the sudden realization that flooded through her making her feel light-headed and ill. Alchemical fire could burn through stone, metal and cloth, chew through it all like a hand tearing through a cobweb, left purple ashes smeared in its wake, like the ones all over the store._

_But the moment it hit wood, the flames flickered out._

_The entire store had been wood._

_Hardison hadn’t started the fire._

_“Oh, my giddy aunt…”_

_“I don’t know what that means, but I guess?”_

_“But… that means Eliot and Hardison…they’re innocent.”_

_Parker’s eyes flickered then, colder and harder than Sophie had ever seen them before._

_“I know. Victor,” she spat the name, “said as much.” Her eyes fixed on Blackpoole as the mayor turned aside a piece of the rubble with his long cane. “They were going to kill you, too, you know.” Sophie’s gaze snapped to the young changeling’s, but she was still glaring down at the mayor like a golden crow. “They didn’t think Nate was going to cooperate. So I stole you.” Her blue eyes finally flickered to Sophie’s. “And we’re going to steal everything else, too.”_

Parker waited at the foot of the stairs, watching her carefully. Sophie made her uneasy way down to the bottom, looking around until the Changeling waved her after again.

“Come on, the vault’s this way.”

*

Blackmail was easy.

Parker had watched them do it to the sheriff, after all, back when they moved to McRory that first mad-dash day. Watched the Mayor’s wife set the table for a meal – and watched that new Mayor pin Mister Ford to his seat with a cane at his knee and a grin on his face.

She hadn’t heard most of what was being said from her vantage point in the trees – Victor might like talking to almost-complete strangers, but she didn’t. If that made her a little _touched_ like he always told people, she could live with it – but she heard enough like “ _We know who you are,_ ” and _“Here’s the deal,”_ to know that it wasn’t good.

And then the sheriff, who had been noble and earnest and honest in every conversation (well, maybe not _every_ , he still carried the electric-current crackle of _something else_ in his spine; that was what made her follow him in curiosity, but it was close enough to count) the whole rambling trip to town, had gone close-mouthed and tight-faced. He had stayed that way all spring, all summer and well into the autumn…

Until Sophie came.

_“So I stole you. And we’re going to steal everything else, too. And if we need to, we’ll hold it all over their heads so we can get Hardison back.”_

_Sophie still looked ill, though whether it was from worrying over the Sheriff or from Parker’s confession that her would-be father was planning her murder too, Parker didn’t know. To be entirely honest, Parker didn’t really care. She was about to reach out and shake the older woman, just to get her out of her daze, when Sophie shook her head firmly. _

_“They’re not going to make it further than the river.” Sophie said, softly._

_“I know.”_

_“We can’t rob the bank in broad daylight.”_

_“I know.” Parker admitted. She was good – but she wasn’t that good. Not yet._

_“We might not make it in time.”_

_Parker huffed, glaring at Sophie. She hadn’t rescued the actress just to have her rain on her parade. “But if we don’t try, all three of them die. You know that, right? Nate won’t come back in one piece any more than the other two do. Not really.”_

_Sophie seemed to think for a moment before she finally nodded._

_“Alright. I’ll help.”_

_“Then now…we wait.”_

*

Jed Rucker’s horse moved like a cyclone through the prairie, making so much noise they could be heard a mile off by any third-lodge Trailwalker worth his clan markings. The rest of the deputies – ten in all, mostly untrained farmers and ranchers that Blackpoole had hired – weren’t much better. Nate watched the horses in front of him with a grimace.

_Well, at least they’ll have fair warning that we’re coming._

Eliot and Hardison had, rather wisely, flown the coop. Old Elsie said they’d left money for a month of lodging in their room, but she hadn’t seen either of them since the night before; about six hours before the fire.

Granted, that meant nothing. Elsie went to sleep usually as soon as the sun set.

The prints Nate had found to the north of town, though, had been fresh. The two men had left well after the fire had been set. Nate wouldn’t have even bothered to try to find them, except as soon as Rucker pointed out the “evidence,” Nate went looking for Sophie…

And found the room she rented at Elsie’s a wreck, a copy of the wanted poster he destroyed tacked to the inside of her door.

The message, he had to say, was rather clear.

North of town, the land spread out in a vast expanse of rolling prairie and copses of trees, on and on until the next territory. It was cut, however, here and there by rivers and streams – artificial and otherwise. The Dragonspine River laid ahead, its presence heralded by the beginning of the woodlands.

The Dragonspine was still high this time of year; the fords washed out by the spring rains and the melting snow. There was only one place to cross for miles and miles and miles. No matter where Eliot and Hardison hit the river, they would have to travel to the bridge.

The plan was to get there first.

*

They caught up with Eliot and Hardison halfway to the bridge.

They were _waiting_.

Nate pulled his mount to a stop. Tesla danced nervously at the sight ahead. The ground had been covered in a network of runes and sigils and signs, braided out of wire and dried grass, carved in sticks of wood and etched onto the path itself in red chalk.

Hardison stood on the far side of the arcane net, his robes fluttering around him, his stare as impenetrable as always. He stood straight-backed, a piece of chalk in one hand, a Bowie knife in the other, and he simply…waved.

“Glad you could join us!” The alchemist said, cheerily, but Nate could detect a hint of fear beneath the good humor. He held up his hand as Rucker started to urge his horse forward.

“Jed, wait.”

He knew most of the signs between them and the alchemist. There were containment wards and protection circles, but there were – scattered among them – firetraps and gateways.

One circle in particular stood out from the rest. It was meant to be a prison. The symbols were very specific - it was aimed at a warlock; designed to hold him or her still and bind him powerless – and very clear.

Any warlock who set foot on it would be stuck, indefinitely.

Nate had seen _that_ one before, actually. His thigh throbbed at the memory and he forced himself to keep his eyes open instead of succumbing to memories three years gone, forced himself to scan the rest of the chain.

…. _Oh, Hardison._

The circle before him would never work.

The writer had used the wrong sigils on the outside edge. Instead of binding a warlock, the circle would do the opposite – it would focus the warlock’s energy, grant a degree of control that the magician on their own wouldn’t command.

_Of course, it won’t react automatically either. There is that._

“You said us.” Nate pointed out, amiably enough. “Where’s Spencer?”

“Oh…” Hardison said, his voice a bit too casual for it to be real, “He’s around.”

“He’s _bluffing_ ,” Rucker snarled and, ignoring Nate’s hissed command, kicked his horse into a trot over the first circle on the ground.

The symbols flared brilliant blue with a high-pitched, glass-edged whine. The ground around it shifted, dissolving into a pit of sand. Rucker’s horse whinnied piteously, trying to regain its proper footing. The second it did, it bolted for the shelter of the trees.

The horse was short enough to make it beneath the trip-line.

Rucker, standing in the stirrups, was not as lucky.

He went head over heels over the back of the horse, landing hard. Nate bit back an instinctive laugh, eyes traveling higher up the tree –

And the urge to laugh disappeared when the wolverine perched in the branches bared its teeth at him and leapt from the tree. Eliot landed on Rucker’s chest paws first, sinking claws in _deep_ , and the horses scattered in a panic.

Nate held Tesla as calm as he could as, around them, the forest exploded into pure chaos. They hadn’t just spelled the path; they’d also worked the magic into the ground for a good twenty feet to either side. Hardison watched from the other side of the barrier, pacing now, as Eliot – calmly and methodically, switching shapes at will so quickly that even Nate couldn’t tell what all of them were – terrified the horses into trap after trap, leaving the posse members still alive, but stuck in trees or pits or nets of vines, their horses bolting desperately back the way they came.

Tesla danced beneath him, and Nate finally dismounted, patting the horse gently. The stallion snorted, once, and then bolted with his brethren, leaving Nate standing in the center of the path, the incapacitated posse groaning around him.

Eliot reappeared behind him, human-shaped now, his blue eyes gleaming and his hair wild, escaping its neat braids to wreathe his head in wisps of ruddy brown. He met Nate’s eyes when Nate looked over his shoulder, and Nate could still see the animal desire to _chase_ in their depths.

Nate shuddered despite himself and, hoping _desperately_ that he wasn’t making a terrible mistake, turned his back on the trailwalker. “I request amnesty,” he said, mildly, remembering times when he hadn’t said it quite as calmly – and hoping with that same desperation that this time, his request would be granted.

Hardison watched him for a second, and then lifted his hand to beckon Nate forward.

It was hard to move slowly with Eliot on his heels, but Nate picked his steps carefully, inching through the lines and slashes drawn on the scuffed ground. He took a deep, shaky breath –

And deliberately stepped into the circle that was meant to be a cage.

Hardison tensed, Eliot dodged back instinctively.

Nothing happened.

Eliot looked to Hardison, wide-eyed, and Hardison just shrugged, looking, for a second, as if he was about to speak. Eliot looked back at Nate, mouth working, but no words coming out - and then both men bolted.

Nate waited a second before he followed.

*

“He’s not Bridge. He can’t be.”

The roar of the Dragonspine nearly drowned out the words as Alec grabbed a pile of books, rammed them into his knapsack, hands shaking. The campsite in the cave on the river’s bank was nearly bare already, he wanted to be gone, preferably _yesterday,_ but Eliot insisted. They couldn’t leave _anything_ behind that could be used to track them. Alec _knew_ that, understood that, but the fear kept him babbling.

“He’s _not_ Bridge and now he’s _pissed_ and we just took out a _whole posse_. You know what that means? It means we look _guilty_. We are gonna _die._ ”

They hadn’t seen this as a possibility. Eliot had been so _sure_ , so _certain,_ and then when Hurley…

Alec still couldn’t think about that. It was too fresh, like a burn still too new to be bandaged. He snapped his knapsack closed, hoisted it over his shoulder.

“If he’s not _Bridge_ , then why the hell is Hurley _dead_?” Eliot snarled back, throwing his pack on Challenger’s back and scuffing more dirt over the already-dead fire pit. Alec flinched at the words, but glared back just as fiercely.

“I don’t _know_ , but you saw the cage runes. They didn’t react!”

“Are you sure you did it right?”

“Yes! I-”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

Alec spun. The sheriff stood in the brightness of the cave’s mouth, hands spread away from his gun belt, eyebrows raised. The alchemist’s eyes narrowed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bright blue eyes – not as bright as Parker’s, but almost as strange – flickered to Eliot, but for the moment the trailwalker was just watching, listening; carefully. Then the sheriff sighed.

“Your symbols. You used hamij instead of halmij. It’s an amplification instead of nullification. There are subtle differences, but…”

Eliot was a blur – a man to a panther to a bear in a heartbeat, pinning the sheriff to the rocky floor of the cave before Alec could blink. Ford wheezed, but didn’t struggle beneath Eliot’s bulky form.

“You _are_ Bridge…” Alec breathed. Ford grimaced as Eliot growled, one massive paw planted in the center of Ford’s chest. “Why. Why did you-”

“Not now, not _now_. You have to listen now.” Ford gasped when Eliot snarled down into his face. “I need…you have to let me take you in.” Judging by the sudden breathless yelp, Eliot had just dug a claw in. “Look, I know you didn’t do it. _You_ know you didn’t do it. Come back with me and let me prove it. Please.”

“Why?”

“Because if I don’t take you back they’re going to kill Sophie.” Ford replied, before he turned his head to stare up at Eliot. The trailwalker’s rage seemed to be subsiding. “You can tell these sorts of things, I know you can, I’ve worked with enough of you. Am I lying?”

Eliot paused, ducking his huge head close to inhale near Ford’s neck. The bear with his best friend’s eyes looked up at him, shook his head.

Alec tried to do the same, tried to say, no, no deal, they were _not_ going back to McRory on the sheriff’s words alone, but he couldn’t deny the feeling that if they killed the sheriff here, everything would just spiral out of control. Ford seemed to sense that the mood was changing, because he added, voice earnest, “I’ll do everything I possibly can to get you a trial.”

_Ironic, considering he never had one._

It was, perhaps, that thought that made Alec finally agree.

Something crunched outside the cave, along the narrow path. Eliot had to have heard it long before, known someone was coming, but he rapidly shifted back to human, resignation in his eyes.

_This is a very bad idea._

Jed Rucker appeared, panting and sweaty, but triumphant, leading his horse into the cave after him. Ford looked at Eliot, said something under his breath that the trailwalker would have been able to hear, but that looked, to Alec, like _I promise._

Rucker’s ropers were rough.

It was going to be a very long night.


	5. Chapter 5

#  V

Night lay dark and heavy, the air laden with ill portent. Nate sat watching the fire while Rucker slept and Alec dozed fitfully. Eliot simply sat and stared into the fire, his arms bound behind him with the spellchains Rucker insisted on. The heavy, ugly iron links made Nate’s skin crawl just looking them.  Like the circle, he knew them well.

_The Unkind War had ended as abruptly as it began; in the unlikely town of South Ridge, Indiana. A small, otherwise unremarkable place, it had been a staging ground for the United State’s raids into the Wilderlands, known to refuel airships and resupply the armies._

_“Remember, you’re just there for recon. They’re far enough away from the leyline that we can’t scry them out. Get in, get the facts, get out.”_

_The instructions had been clear enough, easy enough to follow; the mission was simple enough that they’d sent recruits with him: An untrained shaman, a werewolf on the verge of what would only be his second full moon, a dragon barely out of soft-scales. They’d made it in alright. He’d exhausted himself transferring the information out of the city, passing it on to his mentors in a wave of headache and sore eyes and thoughts that weren’t his own. _

_And they’d never made it out._

_He remembered everything else, but most nights, he couldn’t remember their names._

_They’d fallen, one by one; hunted through the twisting streets like game until he’d been the only one left, trying to just find his way out of the labyrinth of back alleys. The men hunting him had laughed when the street he’d dodged up turned out to be a dead end; laughed, and taken aim, mockery on their lips and murder in their eyes._

_Out of breath, out of time, and out of options, he’d grabbed purely on instinct, looking for some strength beyond his own in the ground beneath his feet – the life inherent in the dirt, plants, worms and mice._

_He expected a candle._

_What he found instead was an inferno that tore through him, igniting his spine, his bones, his very soul with fire the color of blood; a blaze that devoured everything around him and reveled in the screams. Even the one he was fairly sure was his own._

_The next thing he remembered was waking up in on the ground in a cage of light, Roberta Hardison looking at him with an expression that somehow mixed pity, regret and disgust in equal parts. He remembered thinking it odd that a complete stranger could show exactly what he was thinking on her face before she clamped the chains on his wrists. The constant tingling sensation of his magic vanished as abruptly as if it had never existed in the first place, and the shock of it sent him back into the darkness._

_The cages, Roberta and the ugly, magic-stealing chains were the only constants in his life for the next seven years._

Nate shifted on the log, rubbing at his thigh. Outside the cave, he could hear rain. It started light, a misting that barely seemed to brush the leaves, but within the hour it was a downpour, heavy and loud, but not loud enough to drown out his thoughts.

The Unkind War had fizzled to an end with South Ridge. Three hundred dead was a statistic when it came to a battlefield or soldiers, but when it came to civilians, unarmed old women and children, it was a tragedy; one that the Kindly Ones were eager to wash their hands of. Overnight he went from being a trusted lieutenant to being a renegade, a scapegoat, easily discarded if it meant ending the war by anything other than surrender.

There hadn’t been a trial. They hadn’t let him see Maggie or say goodbye to Sam. They’d simply pinned him down, branded the ugly, crooked sigil onto his thigh, tossed him into a cell and slammed the door.

The Dragon Treaties – so called because the humans trusted the least-human-like of the Kindly the most – were signed. The humans and their magical brethren slowly went back to living side by side…

And he’d been forgotten, except as a boogeyman.

 _And now you’re about to add two more to the death count._ Some snide inner voice snarked as, across the fire, Rucker began to stir. Nate turned to eye the greyness of the dawn. The new day was here. _Might as well get this over with._

_*_

The horses moved slowly down the muddy road, as if in rebellion for being forced to carry bound riders. Rucker’s horse plodded the slowest, each step slower than the one before it. Nate tried not to sit too close, or look too closely at Eliot and Hardison on either side.

The rain gathered in the brim of his hat, dripping down in a curtain before his eyes, soaking through the leather of his duster. It was a miserable day, and it _almost_ matched how he felt.

The feeling just grew when they finally broke from the cover of the trees back in the clearing where the fugitives had made their stand and the gallows came into view. It was a huge thing made of winter’s fallen wood, rough and clumsy, but no doubt effective. The sight made Nate’s back creep, gooseflesh rising up and down his spine. He could still see the clumsy circle drawn for him, the stubborn red Alchemist’s chalk still visible on the soaked slate.

_Dubenich’s men work fast._

“…so. _No_ trial. Another lie.” Eliot’s voice was a low growl, resigned and discouraged and dangerous. “Nate…”

“I’m sorry.” He could feel Rucker chuckling, and he wished he at least had the dignity of being on his own damn horse to hide behind.  “ _I’m sorry_. I didn’t…”

Didn’t what? Hadn’t thought it was going to go this far? That was ridiculous, and if he let himself _think_ , he’d always known the end of the road would be like this. But…there were three ropes hanging from the gallows, another clear message. He swallowed hard against the sudden knot in his throat, and shook the rain out of his eyes.

“I told you what happens if I let you go,” he said, sounding far calmer than he felt. “I’m sorry.”

“So…you’re just giving in?” Hardison’s voice was young, small, and it reminded him of Sam. The thought spiked through him like a spear, and his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles went white as he stared, pointedly, at the trees. “You _promised._ ”

The sound of a fist impacting flesh was loud in the constant low hiss of the falling rain. Rucker was just straightening up, Hardison was just falling off his massive Constructed horse when Nate turned back to glare at Rucker.

“That’s _not_ necessary!”

“Get off my horse,” Rucker sneered in response. Nate slid off, and Rucker followed seconds later. Deputies converged on the fallen Alchemist, dragging him to his feet, reddish mud dripping from his robes, others pulling Eliot off his horse. The trailwalker went much harder, planting his feet until they practically had to carry him towards the gallows. “They’re just getting what they deserve, aren’t they? Couple of damn dirty mages…”

“They’re better men than you are,” Nate muttered back, watching them both with a strange feeling in his gut. He meant it, he really did, and-

Pain exploded in his mouth; Rucker had struck too fast for him to process, and something in his nose crunched horribly loud; a sunburst of pain behind his eyes and in his lips. It took an unfair amount of effort not to launch himself back at the smirking deputy. He stared at the ground instead, the red chalk of Hardison’s botched cage beneath his feet matched the colors he felt swirling in his mind.

“Well, sheriff,” Rucker said, as if nothing had happened. The look in his eyes when Nate glanced up made his stomach curl. “Looks like we know how to really push you, now.” His horse shifted at the end of its reins, its brown eyes rolling at the tension in the air. Nate pressed a hand to his nose; it came away crimson. He could feel the slime of it on his teeth and his lips. “Forget the money; you’ll do just ‘bout anything for that pretty actress o’ yours, won’t you?”

The rancher glanced toward the gallows with its nooses, towards the two men Nate had brought in, and the coldness trickling down Nate’s spine grew thicker; like ice.

They had nothing to do with Hurley’s murder, and he was willing to bet everything he owned that the actual perpetuator was standing right in front of him, rubbing the bruises on his meaty knuckles. If he stood here and let them hang, if he stood here and watched, he was killing the wrong men.

He would be killing innocents.

Again.

But the problem was, he didn’t own Sophie. He couldn’t bet her life.

And Victor Dubenich, Ian Blackpoole, Jed Rucker – now _they_ all knew it.

Bloody fingers clenched in a trembling fist before Nate forced them to relax, licking the copper-tang slime from his upper lip. He could feel Eliot’s eyes on him through the rain: willing him to get them out - willing him to take the first step.

Spurs jangled loud in the sudden stillness, and he looked up to meet Rucker’s victorious smirk. “I’m looking forward to a long, long friendship, _sheriff_ ,” Rucker purred, heading back toward the horses. “We’re going to have a nice talk, after this dancin’ lesson’s done.”

Nate watched him go, trying not to think of what he _could_ do. None of that would save anyone, he’d just get them _all_ killed in the long run, and…

Motion – quick, sharp, almost blurring in the rain – caught his eyes. He turned to see Sophie and Parker crouching at the side of the road. He gaped for a second, not entirely willing to believe his eyes.

_How…?_

Sophie twitched her fingers towards Parker with a small smirk. Lucille danced next to him, her massive hooves clanking against the stones. Nate reached out to brush his fingers across one steaming rune as Parker started to creep towards the gallows–

And, like that, the idea he’d been searching for frantically appeared, fully formed and feasible, if he was willing to break all legitimate ties to the remains of his old life. He traced his hand over the rune again, leaving red in his wake.

“Jed!” he called out. Parker froze in her forward motion, stock still in the tense air. Rucker turned, face still set in a poisonous sneer.

“What?”

“Keep the horse.”

Nate held out the reins. Rucker glanced at the Construct’s huge head incredulously as Nate forced his mouth into a grin. It felt like death. “Call it a peace offering.” He could sense the betrayal radiating off his audience. He ignored it as best he could, looking at nothing but Rucker.

“That was quick…” Rucker chuckled and took the reins, started to walk the elegant not-beast towards its creator, bound on the gallows, the rope already around his neck. Lucille shied sideways, clearly displeased-

Nate spat blood on the circle at his feet.

The mud swirled immediately, the arcane circle flaring to brilliant, gory life beneath his feet, surrounding him in an ever-widening circle of charnel red and sea-sky blue and a shade of purple that hurt his eyes whenever the two merged. It spread in sparks and spikes of power until those colors glowed in each and every hoof-print Lucille left behind, catching up fast.

Pure magic erupted from the construct’s runes, flickering from purple to red to blue until they reached the small sign he’d rubbed the blood on. That rune flared once…

And then all the lights – and Nate’s mind - went white.

*

A Constructed horse’s mind was less complex than a real horse’s, and certainly easier to navigate than a human’s. Nate clung to his own red-tinged thoughts under the regular steady throb of his heartbeat, and slid through the alchemical instructions of the runes to plant a single, simple idea:

_Protect your maker._

He stamped it in like a brand, and the Construct’s sigils and symbols accepted it before they drew together and shoved his mind back out. He staggered out of the circle, feeling the tell-tail trickle of wetness down his cheeks, hearing the clarion call of the blood in Sophie’s veins, in Parker and Hardison, in Jed and Eliot and himself, all calling him.

It took an unfair amount of effort to yank free of the desire to step back into the crude, glowing symbols; to dive back into the bloodshed that would strip his mind bare. He took another step back, blinking blood and rain out of his eyes wildly, to see Lucille rear on the end of her lead, all rage and magic and wild glory against the stormy sky. It was breathtakingly beautiful, and yet…

“Oh…. _shit_.”

Jed took off like a jackrabbit, the massive black horse hot on his heels. It was only the beast’s size that saved the rancher as he darted left and right in his outright panic, and it tried to follow his every darting step.

“Parker!” Nate yelled, knowing the temporary thoughts and transient freewill he’d given the construct wouldn’t last forever, not if the blood washed off in the downpour. “Cut them loose! _Hurry_!”

Parker darted for the gallows like a streak of gold, the rain plastering her hair down as she tore at the rope around Alec’s neck. Her hands were fumbling; Nate could tell from here as he drew his pistols and dove for the meager shelter of the trees.

The roar of gunfire ripped through the natural sounds of the rain, and Sophie let out a shriek, ramming into Nate’s side with the speed of her flight. She looked like a drowned cat, carried herself about as elegantly as Parker, and yet she’d never looked so beautiful.

He couldn’t waste time staring, however. She was already wresting one of his pistols from his grip.

“Damn bastard thinks he can shoot at _me_?!” She growled, and as Nate watched, she half-stood, bracing herself against the tree as she opened fire. Another shot, and one of Nate’s former deputies went toppling from his horse. The rest had caught on to the fact that they needed to go for cover - _now_.

“I’ll show _him-_ ” two more shots and she had to fall back and reload; Nate took the opportunity to stand and continue fire; force the corrupt deputies to keep their heads down.

At the gallows, Parker let out a whoop as chains fell with a clatter. Eliot reached with trembling hands to yank the noose from around his neck. There was a brilliant flash of light and he was in the air, wide wings black with wetness. He let out a shriek, and dove for his enemies, keeping them down with his slashing talons.

Lucille’s ears pricked upright at the sound, and the giant not-beast turned and charged toward Hardison; leaving a bloody and bruised – but still alive – Rucker in her wake. Her hooves churned the mud into a froth of brown as she came.

She didn’t stop at the makeshift gallows. Hardison just grabbed Parker’s hand and leapt. The pair landed on Lucille’s broad back; Hardison almost toppled over the other side before Parker caught him and hauled him back into the saddle. He leaned forward to catch the Construct’s reins before they wheeled back around.

Nate looked at the men he’d ridden out with, worked with for the last year. He’d felt more like _himself_ in the week since Hardison and Eliot hit town. Felt more like the man his mother had always told him he could be. He swallowed hard, stripped off his gunbelt, and chased after the rampaging construct.

“Eliot,” he panted, knowing that the Trailwalker would be able to hear him. “Eliot, I’ve got a way out for you _and_ for Hardison.” He paused a second, drew in a breath. “But you’re going to have to kill me.”

*

To Rucker, it looked like a disaster.

Nate followed the construct to the gallows and beyond, hollering for the two fugitives to wait for him.

And, while Rucker watched, their personal, pocket-warlock, lawman of the territories that surrounded the town of McRory, was confronted by the largest wolf any of the men gathered there had ever seen; a wolf with ruddy brown fur and fire-blue eyes that flashed visibly in the rain.

Nate ran, yelling for help at the top of his lungs – help and mercy and (once, Rucker thought) his mother.

The wolf chased, nipping at his heels, a streak of red across the road and the field. Despite the fact that he _knew_ the thing had the mind of a human beneath the fur and behind the teeth, it moved like pure animal – crouched low and powerful, herding Nate away from the horses.

Nate was a fast bastard, Rucker gave him that much.

Unfortunately, the wolf was faster.

Nate tripped over his own feet and hit the mud; the wolf was on him in an instant, snarling so loudly it could be heard where they stood, the horses dancing and nervous. Nate’s shrieks grew louder still, desperate – and then they cut off with a horrible gurgle.

When the wolf that had been Eliot Spencer raised its head, the red fur of its muzzle was dripping. The wolf howled and made a mad dash for the horses, faster than the beaten, tired men could track with a gun sight.

And Rucker was the first to decide that maybe, right now, discretion was the better part of valor.

*

The hoof beats faded into the distance, the dull thud on the muddy ground fast and heavy. Nate lay sprawled in the wet grass, eyes closed and leg aching, until he could no longer hear the sound. His eyes cracked open, slowly, to see Eliot staring down at him, arms crossed, blood on his sleeve from where he’d wiped his teeth.

“Seriously, Bridge?”

“-it’s Ford, now. Please.”

“Ford just died.” Eliot cocked his head. “I just killed him.”

“…quite the salient point there.” Nate winced as he sat up, wiping his lips off on his sleeve and spitting, once. “I didn’t expect you to _lick_ me.”

“Would you have rather I bit you?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Nate spat again, mostly to cover his discomfort. _They_ were safe for now – Rucker was too much of a coward to come back out here until the men were done licking their wounds, and by that time Eliot would be back in the town telling the _real_ story.

But Nate Ford, sheriff of McRory, was dead. Eliot wouldn’t have to answer to anyone for killing him for real this time.

“Give me _one_ good reason, Bridge, why I shouldn’t rip your throat out.” Eliot’s face scrunched in a snarl, and for a moment Nate seriously considered running away again. Then he drew in a breath and gave a deceptively calm shrug.

“Because Hurley didn’t want you to.” He spoke fast, seeing Eliot’s shoulders tense. “And I can help you take down the people who _actually_ killed him. And, most importantly, I can keep you alive.”

 _Yes_ , that snide inner voice said, _because you’ve done such a good job at that in the past._

He ignored it as Sophie and Parker burst into their clearing. Both women were grinning as if they shared some secret. In light of the situation, he shouldn’t have found it as terrifying as he did.

“You two look like a cat that just ate a canary,” Eliot snarled, giving Nate a look, one that seemed to promise that this was far from done. Parker beamed.

“More like a cat that just robbed a bank.”

Eliot’s double take was almost hilarious, but Nate couldn’t pay too close attention to it, because Sophie was leaning over him, her graceful hand reaching out –

To brush twigs from his hair.

_Hey, take what you can get._

He hurriedly outlined the plan, drawing in Parker’s confession as he kept an eye on Eliot. If this was to work, he’d have to trust the trailwalker with everything. He didn’t like the idea, but it was better than dying. He still felt that way when Eliot crossed his arms, still snarling.

“This isn’t a good plan.”

“Sure it is,” Nate said mildly. “Where’s Hardison?”

“I’m right here.” Hardison appeared out of the scrub bushes, leading Lucille with one hand, Challenger with the other. Nate pushed himself to his feet, lifting a hand, and Hardison took a step back. “Woah, woah, woah. Sure you just saved our lives, but that don’t mean I gotta trust you.”

_Funny. I almost feel the same way._

“You don’t have to trust me.” He said out loud, stripping off his shirt before it processed that Sophie was watching. He flashed her an awkward smile. She returned it, a wicked gleam in her eye, before she reached out to take Parker’s hand, towing the girl out of the clearing. “Just give me your clothes.”

“… _excuse_ me?” Hardison drew up short, confusion in his stance.

“Your clothes.” Nate held his shirt out, tossing it over Lucille’s back when the alchemist didn’t immediately take it. “No one knows what Alec Hardison looks like.”

Eliot stared at him for a second before realization dawned bright in his eyes. “… _he_ gets to be the new sheriff?” He asked, ducking to retrieve Nate’s soggy duster from where it had fallen. Nate grinned, shakily.

“Maybe.”

“An’ how is that gonna keep ‘em from killin’ Eliot?” Hardison asked, peeling off his top layer of robes.

“Lord knows it's _not_ ,” Nate scoffed as he stripped off his trousers, and Eliot looked at his friend with raised eyebrows. Raised, _accusing_ eyebrows. “Eliot's goin' to do that all on his own. He knows what they had planned, and who they worked with to do it and, thanks to Sophie and Parker,” he thought he hears a giggle there, and he glowered at the trees as he tugged Hardison’s robes on. “He’ll have the faked deeds. You'll all have the people on your side ‘cuz you’ll be giving their money back...and _they_?" He grinned, buckling the robes shut with a snap, "They know what _he_ can do.”

Hardison thought about that for a moment before he blinked. “ _Forniamo vantaggio_.”

“Eh?”

“‘Give me a long enough lever and a place to stand, and I will move the earth.’ We’ve got leverage.”

Nate glanced at Eliot, who gave a half-shrug. Sophie and Parker came back out of the trees with a quickness that confirmed Nate’s suspicion that they hadn’t gone really far in the first place…but from the wink Sophie threw him, he didn’t really need to worry about that.

He looked around at the motley group for a second before he pulled the goggles down over his eyes.

“Alright, some of us have practiced robbing a bank, so...Let’s go steal our town back.”

  



	6. Chapter 6

Epilogue

At high noon the next day, they walk into McRory: a tall young black man with a shiny sheriff’s badge, a trailwalker with the taint of blood still on his teeth, and a lanky alchemist, swathed from head to toe in cotton and silks and linen and leather, orange goggles pulled down over his eyes.

The whole town watches them come in. They all know what happened to Nathan Ford or N’thael Bridge, whichever name they choose to think of him by. Rucker told them, changing the facts where needed so he seemed like less of a coward.

Anyone watching, though, still notices that the rancher gives the trailwalker a wide berth.

Mayor Blackpool meet them at the square. The sweat on his pallid face _could_ be from the sun – or it _could_ be from the fire in the new sheriff’s stare when he meet the mayor’s eyes, shakes his hand firmly.

“I’m looking forward to working with you,” the mayor says, and it almost seems like the truth.

“Likewise,” says the new sheriff – and the word is a challenge. The same challenge in the Trailwalker’s stare, the Alchemist’s flexing hands, the swish of Sophie’s hair as she flounces out of the crowd, or Parker’s kitten-quick steps when she joins the rest. The sheriff smiles, tips his hat, and saunters off towards his new office without waiting to be dismissed.

Some people claim that as the sheriff opened the door he was testing out sentences, as if tasting the words.

_“I will write a letter to your momma.”_

What that means, exactly, they’re not sure.

But one thing is certain:

The good people of McRory are looking forward to finding out.


End file.
